The sun is brightly shining on my snow-dusted neighborhood. I am far from the LA fire zone –that sad, horrible catastrophe– and here I am flouncing off to Spain feeling extremely fortunate. Yes, flouncing, because that is what you do when you are privileged to bounce over the ocean on JetBlue to a new country filled with history and mystery. I want to record this flounce if for no one but my mom who is no longer able to travel and brings out her maps to follow me along on my trails.

So Mom, here I am, not headed to the airport yet, but nervously packing and unflouncing the wrinkles from the blazer you gave me for Christmas before I balance it in on the “to go” pile. Thank you for the Christmas lovelies and for wanting to follow along so that I can share with someone my absolutely wonder-filled life on the road to foreign lands. Come along and hold your breath around those cliffs that drop off to oblivion, and get ready to yell, “Slow down or stop this car and let me out!” Yes, now we can laugh about that drive from your cabin to Lake Tahoe, but it was not so funny when I was sixteen. This time I have my daughter in the passenger seat, we’ll see how she does with my Grace Kelly Hitchcock driving. Your view from the rear window can be safely contemplated from the comfort of your La-Z-Boy.

(My brother tuning up the Buva Cruiser, me, at 15 years old and my sister, the forebearer of the keys. Before long I’ll be testing my mother’s nerves on the curves in that tiny Toyota)